


reviver

by repeatogirl



Category: Constantine (TV), Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), DC Animated Universe, DCU (Comics), Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms, Justice League Dark (Comics)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Occult, Witchcraft, palmistry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:05:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/repeatogirl/pseuds/repeatogirl
Summary: Even amidst the tobacco from his shirt, he recognizes the scent of Palo Santo smoke on her– rich, heavy, and suffocatingly holy. What's she trying to bury?If Zatanna's crossing certain lines without him, damned if Constantine won’t be the one to bring her back.
Set after the Dr. Light [past] situation in Identity Crisis and before the "American Gothic" storyline in Swamp Thing.





	

While it's the buzzer that shakes him from sleep, it's the shattering of glass that properly wakes him up. Thankfully, but also regretfully, it's his highball glass he's knocked over, half-empty, and not the vial of dead man's blood. With a grumble, he ambles towards the intercom.

"I don't care who the fuck this is, just sod off. It's the middle of the bloody night, so–"

"John."

Well damn. How Zatanna Zatara found him at this hour, in this town– he'd only just arrived last week– he doesn't know and doesn't rightly care, because she's here just outside this shitty flat, standing in the middle of a storm, which, by the sound of the rain beating in the background, has only gotten worse since he passed out. While she certainly doesn't owe him any formalities, he's curious why she doesn't literally– _magically_ – pop in unannounced. Maybe she's giving him the opportunity to tidy up? Forever the optimist. He buzzes her in without another word, puts out the Silk Cut still burning at the table, and shoves the clutter away from the front door with his foot. Clean enough.

When she doesn't materialize right before his eyes in the next thirty seconds, he realizes that she's actually taking physical steps all the way through the walk-up and uses that time to resurrect his fallen gin and tonic. He gets one proper sip in before she's knocking on the door. Frowning at the third mundane curiosity of the night, he opens the door to find her soaked to the bone and shivering, her eyes a little empty, a little unfocused. _Huh._ For now, he'll set aside his suspicions.

He greets her with his best smirk, paired sweetly with a lustful once-over and it's enough to get her to roll her eyes at him and shove in without a proper invitation. It shifts his smirk into something more sincere, but it stays hidden behind his glass.

"Now, not to look a gift witch in her very pretty mouth, but to what do I owe the pleasure of this late night visit? Or _is_ it pleasure?"

She ignores him and even though she makes her way to the bedroom, he knows that's not the reason. Still, he follows her. He watches as she somehow locates his last clean shirt and strips out of that awful new getup she's taken to wearing now that she's a proper member of the League. He misses the waistcoat and of course, the fishnets, but the Mistress of Magic in his white oxford shirt? It's certainly quite a sight.

By the time she's done with the buttons– _the first few left undone, bless_ – he's closed the distance between them.

"Zee."

It's a bitter smile she gives him, before taking a drink from his glass, purposefully keeping her hand over his, as if to anchor herself to the moment. Even amidst the tobacco from his shirt, he recognizes the scent of Palo Santo smoke on her– rich, heavy, and suffocatingly holy. What's she trying to bury?

"What brings you here, love?"

The only response he gets is a heavy sigh carrying a whole hell of a lot more than he should be getting into. It occurs to him that the only thing she's said so far tonight is his name– _of all the bloody things–_ and for a woman of words, well, it's damned disconcerting. Twisting a damp lock of hair with his free hand, he disarms her with a grin, downs the rest of his drink and sets it down on the pile of spellbooks on the floor.

"You trust me?"

She furrows her brow and the confusion looks so damn charming on her that he can't help but laugh a bit, even as he cups her face and fixes his mouth to hers. Her skin's still cold, his charms having failed to heat her up sufficiently, but she's always challenging him, isn't she? He kisses her slowly, keeping in line with her unusual reticence of the night, but he makes sure it leaves them both breathless, working his tongue against hers with intention, nipping at her bottom lip as he breaks away.

He's pleased when she edges forward, one hand wrapped tightly around his tie and the other on his collar, but there's time for that later. Instead, he rests his forehead against hers and whispers, "Just breathe with me, Zee. I'm right here."

It's barely a nod that she gives him, almost imperceptible if not for the slight drag of her skin against his. He can feel her heartbeat underneath his fingers starting move in time with his own.

When it syncs, he pulls away on an inhalation, drawing out their shared breath, and drawing in the oxygen all the way to the base of his spine. He watches as her pupils shrink to adjust to the light and locks in his gaze. Through a mirrored exhale that fills the room, he murmurs, "just like that."

Two breaths later, he drops his hands away from her face, faintly keeping contact with her skin, tracing a line from her collarbone and down her arms, before resting on her hands. His eyes never leave hers.

Three breaths later, she finally leads the way and loosens her grip. But it's a slow descent to where they're supposed to go and it takes another five full breaths before they're left with only their fingertips touching.

They breathe in harmony for who knows how long until the energy finally spirals into place, snaking its way between the two of them. They're not the most adept at channelling this, at least not yet, but he can pinpoint the moment Shiva breaks her open.

Her hands shake just before there's a hitch in her breathing, which escalates to hyperventilation, before the tears finally flood her eyes and they sink to the floor. John eases her through it, holding her steady as she wails against each broken wall of doubt, guilt, regret, and whatever else she's trying to maintain. Through the sobs she's murmuring something about lights, flashes, black, green (queen?), some bloke named Bruce, and he wonders what the hell is going on up in that satellite.

Eventually she collapses, finally calm, and far too knackered to be bothered by the way he nearly trips over another stack of grimoires while carrying her to bed.

Loosening his tie, he settles in next to her, noting how much warmer she is now. As he pulls the cheap wool blanket over the both of them, he glances at his watch. It's nearly 6 o'clock. He's glad he never bothers to open the curtains.

 

* * *

 

Zatanna wakes up the next morning to smell of bacon, eggs, coffee, and cigarettes, as well as the sound of John cursing. It's a simple "bollocks" under his breath, so she figures he's must have forgotten something; basic cuts and burns don't merit much more than a "hmm."

When she emerges from his room he's cutting a tiny tomato in half in an effort to complete the meal. How very chivalrous for him to share.

Brandishing their plates with pride, he greets her with an offhand "'morning, gorgeous.'" Even though she can feel how puffy her eyes are from crying all night and how chapped her lips are, she still cracks them further with smile. Damn him.

John doesn't bother removing the paraphernalia from the dining table, setting her coffee between the vial of blood and an ashtray, while placing the plate atop an open tome. None of that matters; the food's delicious. He's hit-or-miss with the morning-afters– _then again, so am I_ – but when there's actual breakfast involved? He never fucks that up.

She's grateful he doesn't bring up what happened last night and just pores over the book underneath his plate. It gives her the opportunity to get a better look at him and when she notices he actually did nick his hand at some point, she promptly takes it in hers. He never even turns his head when she whispers " _leah dna ehtoos_."

She traces the top line of his palm, fractured and shallow, the only curve an upward concave bending toward his middle finger. _Naturally_. She kisses it anyway.

"We both know palmistry is rubbish."

Keeping her head down, she smiles as she continues to trace the patterns across his palm. The lines are riddled with scars, half of them she recognizes from memory and few of their own rituals, but the others are newer, cleaner, more deliberate. He's going further than he ever did with her. "You know, for an occultist con-man, I'm surprised you can't–"

With feigned vexation, he interrupts her by flipping his hand over, covering hers completely. Using what's probably an impersonation of her own stage voice he intones, "Square palm, long fingers? Got a way with words, do ya?"

She can't help but laugh and the sound only grows when he ends the act by kissing the back of her hand. She can feel the smirk against her skin before he pulls back to reveal it.

"Now eat up. You look like hell."

"What happened to 'gorgeous'?"

He returns to his grimoire, grinning to himself. "Still true."

**Author's Note:**

> The more I think about _Identity Crisis_ , the more it infuriates me. It's right up there with the _Constantine_ cancellation. Le sigh.
> 
> (At least there's that _Justice League Dark_ animated movie to look forward to... but where's that release date?)


End file.
